


Out of the Mouths of Babes

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:59:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eddard Stark doesn't realize the truth until it is far too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Slip of the Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> The queen glanced at the words. "Protector of the Realm," she read. "Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?" She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.
> 
> "Those were the king's words," Ser Barristan said, shocked.
> 
> "We have a new king now," Cersei Lannister replied. "Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home."
> 
> "We, my lady?" Ned's response was measured as he regarded the former queen. "His Grace is the only man who may command me."

The cold halls of the Red Keep seemed to sap Ned Stark's strength as he hobbled his way up the stairs to the Tower of the Hand, away from the politicking and weightiness of the Iron Throne. Every decision, every choice he made as Hand had unforeseen consequences, and even when he tried to take such into account, men like Varys would come, whispering counsels that made wisdom and their own self-interest seem inseparable. No more. He would send the girls back to Winterfell, and hopefully follow them as soon as possible and be done with this scheming about in the capital.

“Lord Stark.” Septa Mordane's voice broke through the stream of thought, and he turned to face her in the solar.

“Send for the girls,” he commanded, and eased himself into his chair. On the table in front of him, as in mockery, lay open _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._ He grudgingly picked it up, searching his mind as to why Jon Arryn would want such a ponderous tome.

Jon was always concerned with his own line of succession, but with a living son, why would he care overmuch about genealogy? Unless he thought himself able to glean from the histories whether Dragonstone or Casterly Rock would be the best place for young Robert to foster...but this seemed unlikely at best. Jon of all people would know that it is the man, not the place, that makes the child.

But how well did Ned know Jon, after so many years? He'd once known the man's every leaning, so as best to imitate his every move, but in none of Jon Arryn's actions after his death could Ned see a trace of the man he knew. Asking after the King's bastards? Fostering his son-- and choosing between Stannis Baratheon and Tywin Lannister? Reading books on the breedings and doings of men long gone?

It was not long before both his daughters were sitting before him, in the midst of another spat, this time over Sansa's dress, a fight that ended quickly once both were faced with the reality of returning to Winterfell.

Arya would go easiest, Ned thought. He wondered if she liked the capital any more than he did. Sansa would be another story. She was completely besotted with Prince Joffrey-- a match that Ned himself had consented to.

"Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey. I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."

Ned tried to be reassuring. "Sweet one, listen to me,” he pleaded. “When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me." Robert's words echoed in his head. _“How could I have made a son like that, Ned?”_

After seeing the man Robert had become, Ned wondered that Joffrey hadn't turned out worse.

“He is!” Sansa cried plaintively. “I don't want someone bra—Joffrey _is_ gentle, and as brave as a lion, and as strong as a stag!”

“Enough.” He held Sansa's hands between his. “We'll speak no more of this. You're going back to Winterfell, both of you.” He'd see if he couldn't get Syrio Forel to accompany them, it would keep Arya busy on the ship.

“Pack your things. It's best you leave King's Landing.” _And best I leave, too,_ he thought. _Robert can give Jaime the badge, let him have the run of this accursed city._


	2. A New King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Small Council confronts the court with King Robert's last words.

Ser Barristan Selmy kept his gaze steady as he walked into the cavernous throne room, the great chair of spiked iron dominating the scene. To both sides of the Iron Throne stood his kingsguard, forming a barrier between the throngs of nobles and knights who crowded the hall, and his new king, already atop the royal seat.

Over his long years at court, Ser Barristan had known many men newly come to power, and though they were as different as can be from one another, all of them faced the same test when faced with their new title. Some men-- those like Lord Renly, he thought-- knew best how to embody the dignity of high office. Ofttimes, Ser Barristan had wondered if the King could not have learned something from his brother's bearing, if not from his desire to perform his duties to the realm-- for though King Robert was a great man, it could not be said that he sat the throne well. Robert was of another type of man than his brother-- one who when confronted with great power fled from it, knowing not quite how to handle it.

His new king certainly was no Robert, Ser Barristan could certainly tell that much. Young and angular, the boy was draped in so much cloth-of-gold that he looked half a statue. He seemed to lean back into the blades of the chair, yet his eyes were gleaming, excited-- the same as his mother, standing on the throne's right. Queen Cersei had waited long for this moment, Ser Barristan suspected.

Lord Stark led the procession to the foot of the stairs, then rested a moment, holding onto Lord Baelish for support. They gazed at the throne for a moment as the rest of their party halted, and Ser Barristan made his way forward past Lord Renly and the Grand Maester. Their eyes never seemed to leave the queen.

The king stood. His countenance was beaming, confident-- and yet there was something that frightened the Lord Commander. "I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation," he proclaimed. "I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councilors."  
  
The court's eyes were all upon them as Lord Stark produced King Robert's last will. "Your Grace, I have here the last words of your father. Will you not hear them?"  


The silence was deafening. The young king, so confident in his speech a moment ago, now looked lost. His protectors looked about anxiously. Finally, the queen broke the silence. “Bring those words to me.”

Ser Boros, ever obedient, took the paper from Lord Stark and presented it to his queen. She had barely glanced at them before she tore them to shreds. "Protector of the Realm? Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?"  
  
Ser Barristan was shocked. "Those were the king's words," he said, not adding in the hidden threat. _I serve the king, not the queen._  
  
"We have a new king now," Cersei Lannister replied. "Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home."

"We, my lady?" Lord Stark's face was haggard, his bearing crippled, yet his voice showed not a trace of fear. "His Grace is the only man who may command me." 

Silence once more reigned. The king's Hand and the queen stared at one another for a moment, neither turning away, the whole hall fixated upon them, until the spell was broken by a high, shrill laugh.

“Well done, Lord Stark.” All eyes fixed themselves on the Iron Throne, where King Joffrey once more stood. This time, his nervousness was evident-- Ser Barristan thought he could see the youth's blood from where he gripped the side of the chair to support himself. “I am the king. And as your king, Lord Stark, I shall not allow you to step down as Hand. Nor will I allow my betrothed to leave for Winterfell. You served my father well, Lord Stark. You'll serve me the same way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the idea for this AU started: Joffrey offering/forcing the Handship on Ned. Harkening back to Littlefinger's speech, where he says
> 
> "Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa. Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a second father, and if not, well . . . four years is a good long while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then, should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret and put Lord Renly on the throne." -- AGOT, Chapter 47
> 
> Now obviously this was never an option, because Ned knew *the truth*. But what if he didn't know? That was my inspiration, and while this will play out quite differently than the glossy version Littlefinger puts forth, this is where it all begins. I hope you enjoy it.


	3. Small Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei's Small Council is not at all to her liking.

“I take it his Grace will not be joining us?”

The eunuch's simper was as cloying as ever as Cersei swept into the room, observing the various councilors already seated. Their very presence irritated her. Robert finally dead, yet even now her small council would be plagued by the likes of Ned Stark, Renly, and Ser Barristan. She would have to change that.

“My son is still growing accustomed to being king. I imagine he'll soon seek to put his mark on the realm, but until then, I will sit for him on the council.”

Silence followed. Ned Stark looked at Littlefinger-- the two had been seen together far too often for Cersei's liking. Littlefinger might need to be removed as well.

The Grand Maester broke the silence. “The King has requested we draw up plans for his coronation, your Grace. Has he conveyed any of his wishes to yourself about the matter?”

“Indeed. Joffrey wishes to be crowned on the steps of the Great Sept, at whatever hour the High Septon determines is most auspicious. All the great lords of the realm will be required to attend, and renew their oaths of fealty. Furthermore, he wishes a new crown to be made, wrought of gold and rubies, so as to properly convey his majesty.”

At this point, Lord Stark finally bothered himself to speak. “Pardon me, your Grace, but is a new crown really necessary?” He looked about the table as if for support. “I bore your husband great love, but his was not...the most...”

Littlefinger cut in. “I think what Lord Stark means to say, your Grace, is that King Robert lived like a Braavosi courtesan, and spent money like one. Unless you can convince your father Lord Tywin to bless us with a few thousand dragons, I'm afraid we will not have the funds to provide bread and salt for the coronation feast, much less a new crown.” He seemed positively gleeful.

“This is preposterous!” Pycylle had stirred himself from a near-stupor to lean into his ponderous speechifying. “Seven different Targaryen kings choose unique crowns for themselves. From Aegon the Conqueror through Maekar the Anvil, it has always been the prerogative of the King to choose his own crown. Even King Aenys, the second of his line, had a ornate crown of gold, to show his right to rule the Seven Kingdoms”

“By all means then, let Joffrey wear Aenys' crown,” Renly japed, “I believe we still have it somewhere in the keep.”

“Stop!” All the power of the king, finally at her command and it seemed all it had given her was the right to listen to a chorus of bores and fools. “I will take no further discussion of this. Lord Baelish, you will find money sufficient for the coronation, lest you lose your position. I can quite easily lend from my father without your assistance, if need be.”

“If need be, your Grace?” Littlefinger's face still carried that irritating smile. 

“Yes, Lord Baelish. My father is coming to King's Landing within the week. You'd best convince him to extend our loans.”

“Now, before I leave, I wish to convey further of my son's wishes to his council. First, his grandfather, Lord Tywin, is to welcomed at court when he arrives within the month. Second, so as to prevent any ill-will between the Crown and the Warden of the West, my son wishes to restore Ser Gregor Clegane to all ranks and titles he previously enjoyed, and welcome him to court with honor.” Cersei looked directly at Ned Stark. “Lastly, Lord Stark, you are to release my brother, Tyrion Lannister. The King commands it.”

As Cersei rose, so did the other councilors, looking to her lead as she swept out of the room.

All except Lord Stark.


	4. Bankruptcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A matter of Lannisters and debts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol it's been awhile huh? Well, you know how it is, with school and whatnot. Anyways it's summertime, so enjoy!

The sun was shining as Tyrion Lannister, accompanied by his sellsword and his clansmen, made his way down from the Vale, and gazed upon the basin of the Trident. Rolling hills coming down from the Mountains of the Moon slowed as they approached the great river, cut by a road that led all the way down to King’s Landing.

In the middle of the road was a Lannister army.

Tyrion looked at the tribesmen next to him. “My father’s army”, he spoke, gesturing towards the spears. “I must go greet him.”

Shagga grabbed him. “Not alone, halfman. We will come with you.” He gestured towards the other clan leaders.

“So be it,” he said, and they walked towards the advancing troops.

His father’s face was slightly more grim than usual by the time he had trotted to the front of the column. Of course. Lannisters don’t get kidnapped, or somesuch. “Fancy meeting you here, father.”

“And you as well. I was beginning to think I’d have to siege the Bloody Gate to get you free.”

“You’re lucky to not find me in the valley below. My lord, allow me to present Bronn the sellsword, who won me my freedom in trial by combat, and the illustrious clan leaders of the Mountains of the Moon, to whom I have promised the Vale of Arryn.” Tyrion saw the corner of his father’s mouth twitch.

“You promised them the Vale.”  
“Yes, father.”

“Come here” He beckoned Tyrion to him. “Raynald”, he said, gesturing to the squire behind him, “Bring up a horse”. 

The squire looked about nervously, then brought forth a small palfrey. Tyrion walked up to the horse and began adjusting the stirrups. “Raynald was it?” The squire nodded. “I will require a stepladder.”

Lord Tywin interjected. “No, he won’t.”

“But how am I supposed to mount th—“

“You should have thought of that beforehand. A Lannister doesn’t get taken unawares.” His father regarded him disdainfully, letting his gaze speak the words again.

Tyrion looked back to Bronn, and the clansmen, who had begun to shift nervously. “Bronn, help me onto this horse, if you please.” 

The mercenary walked over and bowed to Tywin. “Begging your pardon, m’lord,” he spoke, before hoisting Tyrion into the saddle, and walking to stand beside Raynald.

His father held Bronn’s gaze for several seconds, then surveyed the tribesmen, both the few directly in his presence and the hundreds that had decamped several hundred yards’ distant. Finally, he spoke, but not to the clansmen.

“Kill them all.”


	5. Details

The lion stood triumphant atop a red hill. Sansa had wanted to embroider the whole keep, initially, but the Queen had taken a particular interest in this piece, and Sansa wanted it to be done as soon as possible—it would make such an excellent coronation gift for Joffrey. She had already sewn the direwolf frolicking in a field of golden flowers—now, all she needed to add was the stag.

“Why’s the stag got a crown?” asked Arya. Her dancing lessons had thankfully given her other things to do, but she still spent most of her sewing time talking.

“Because that was King Robert’s sigil. Maester Luwin said that when Robert took the throne, he added the crown, because a king needs a crown.”

“The king can do as he likes”, said Jeyne, with a look at Sansa.

Arya was persistent. “The Targaryens didn’t have a crown. Just a dragon.”

A new voice broke into the “And now the Targaryens are no more”

Queen Cersei stepped into the room, radiant in the red and gold of her house, touched with the black of mourning. Septa Mordane rose and curtseyed, and the three girls did the same. “I beg your pardon, your Grace,” the Septa said.

“No matter,” the Queen replied. “I came to see how my little dove’s handiwork is coming along.” Sansa flushed, and brought forth the piece from her place at the table. “My, isn’t this pretty”, remarked the Queen, regally regarding the neat stitches .

“I’ve not finished yet, your Grace.” In truth, Sansa had been working quite hard, but it was so difficult to get the field of flowers just right, and to make the lion’s mane suitable majestic had taken the better part of an afternoon. “I’ve still got to sew the stag, right above the river there.”

The Queen looked up. “Three branches…the Trident, is it?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“And what kind of flowers are these, the yellow ones?” Could she really not tell? Sansa had thought she’d made it obvious.

“Roses, your Grace.”

The Queen smiled, and Sansa’s heart lept. “Well, Sansa dear, how would you like to come to court today? Joffrey’s going to be making preparations for the coronation.”

Sansa’s heart lept. “Very much so, your grace.”

The Queen beamed at her. “Excellent, then. And come find me when you finish your tapestry.”

She swept from the room, and Sansa fairly tingled with excitement. She turned to find Arya glaring at her angrily. “Oh, don’t be jealous, you can come too. Father will insist.”

“I don’t want to!” pouted Arya, and stormed from the room. Sansa gave Jeyne a quick smile, then returned to her sewing—after all, she’d be seeing Joffrey tomorrow.


End file.
